


To Swallow the Sun

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Body Changes, Fluff, Knotting, Lactation Kink, M/M, Modern AU, Mpreg, Vaginal Sex, like really wholesome a/b/o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27951581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: Please just mind the tags, y’all. I was originally going to post this anon but then I realized I’ve written much shittier and less wholesome stories.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	To Swallow the Sun

Collins is let off work early that day and so it is with a kind of buoyant birthday feeling that he returns home, intending to surprise Goodsir with a proposal that they take the train to the countryside for a late picnic or perhaps go to a matinee. But that scent hits him the moment he walks through the door, a subtle but heady shift in the accrued mixing of scents that marks their home as _theirs_ , and instantly he knows their plans have changed. 

He finds Goodsir at the kitchen sink and slides up behind him, burying his nose in his hair. Unmistakable. It is like his natural scent grown fat and mildly sweet, stronger in a way it was not even this morning. Yet it must have been. That is, the process must have already been well under way: the taking root, the proliferation of cells deep in the slender trunk of his mate. Life’s nebulous beginnings. He sucks the smell in as hard as he can, and it wakes in him at once a kind of husbandly tenderness and that deep alpha greed, ravening even in triumph. 

“God,” he mutters, gliding his broad palm up Goodsir’s shirt to cup his belly, “Nothing pleases like seeing one’s wife so hard at work.” 

“Mmm. A moment, Henry.” He dips the dish into the warm water before making a show of leaning over to grab the towel hooked on a peg on the bare brick wall, his ass grazing Collins as he does so. Collins digs his fingers into his lushly rounded hips and drags him flush against him with a growl. He’s already hard, his knot thickening into shape at the base of his cock, and so he is gratified when an exploratory fumble with his fingers reveals Goodsir’s slit already soaked with slick beneath his skirt. The smaller man gasps and parts his leanly muscular legs and leans over the wash basin, grasping each side of the table for support.

“Are you glad?” Collins growls into his ear as he slides his skirt up to his waist, revealing full, rounded buttocks sloping down toward the shadow of his gleaming labia. 

“More than,” Goodsir responds slyly. “Clearly.”

“What I mean is,” he says low into his ear, “are you glad that you’re going to have my pup?” 

Goodsir had experienced his first heat since adolescence a month before, having chosen to go off suppressants in order to fully enjoy his bond with Collins. They had both assumed he was sterile, as a majority of male omegas of his age were, and it had even been a hesitation on Goodsir’s part to deny such a prime alpha the opportunity to breed. And so when, in the heat of the moment, Collins had poured filth into Goodsir’s ear about getting him full of his pups, keeping him fat with them, it had driven Goodsir so feral that Collins was sorry that he couldn’t. But now the smell is unmistakable and it’s made Collins mad with want; that he’s even managed this much forbearance and did not simply bend him over and shove his thick cock into Goodsir’s sopping slit is a miracle. He glides his fingers along the smooth lips, relishing their dripping heat.

“Please,” Goodsir pleads. “I’d love that.”

“You _are._ can smell it on you. You must be a proper broodmare after all.” 

“Truly?” Goodsir’s face goes serious and for a moment Collins panics. Does he not wish for this? Will he be frightened, angry? But then he smiles, his coppery-green eyes crinkling. “Imagine,” he says softly, breathlessly.

Collins gives a guttural grunt as he lifts Goodsir by his hips onto the kitchen counter and aligns the head of his cock with Goodsir’s slick opening. Such is his size that he still must go slow, slow, slow, and though Goodsir was the first omega he’d ever been with who could sheathe the entire length of him it still hurts near the end. This he tries to hide from Collins but Collins can feel the minute tightening of his body; he can feel the whine in his throat and the catch of his breath against a pained cry. And he can usually smell the incremental shift in Goodsir’s scent as it’s soured by a prickling of fear. But there’s none of that this afternoon as Goodsir digs his nails into his shoulder and, with a quaking moan, takes all of him.

“How big do you think I’ll get?” Goodsir asks in a faint quaver. “I hope I—I hope I become enormous.” A vision of this flashes across Collins’ mind, pushed seamlessly through on the wavelength of their bond. Goodsir’s belly is heavily spherical, jutting out from beneath puffy, pointed little tits—so huge the only way he can take him is on his knees and elbows, knotting in from behind. A pregnant omega, he has heard, can be insatiable, suffering a kind of continuous simmering heat, and in turn, the constant pheremonal pull of it can trigger such a rut in an alpha that mated pairs sometimes all but disappear for months at a time, knotted constantly together. The greedy omega continuously milking his alpha—his thighs and their sheets would be soaked with seed and slick and he’d still be panting and whining for more, canting his hips against him—the pendulous curve of his belly swaying between his legs, all full of him, _his_ pup, _his_ omega, _his_ Harry—Collins’ knot flares open and fixes deep in Goodsir who presses back, back, back against him, crying out as the muscles of his body contract, coaxing, around him. And all of it spills out, a hot tide. “Get you pregnant again and again,” he snarls as he fills him. “You’ll always be fixing to have my pups now, won’t you?”

Goodsir nods frantically. “Yes,” he gasps, “yes.” 

The relief is immense, as it always is. Collins gazes down at where his cock is locked into the other man, his lips tugged taut and swollen around it, and then lets his eyes travel up his lean, dark-furred belly, his lightly muscled chest. Goodsir is panting, leaning back on his locked arms on the countertop, the softness of his throat presented like a gift. Collins leans forward and kisses him softly there, like he knows he likes—licks the curve of his Adam’s apple and nuzzles the stubble on his chin. Then he lifts him, bracing him so the weight of his full, rounded hips rest against his own, and lowers him to the kitchen floor. He could carry him further but he likes it here: likes the coolness and the light and the way the smell of Goodsir is concentrated. His man, his wife. Barefoot and pregnant, padding around with one on his hip and one tugging at his skirt, belly distended with a third. In this, now, are the two sides of Collins united—the man in him who longs to be a father, to provide for and raise good children; and the dumb animal in him, the thrusting drive to conquer, to seed.

“I’ll lactate, I imagine,” Goodsir murmurs, wrapping his legs around Collins.

“Yeah,” Collins murmurs, gazing down at him with a soft grin. But his mind is dulling as Goodsir begins to roll against him, pulling him in, always. “Get little tits in, yeah?” He pants.

“Oh, yes. Sensitive little tits,” Goodsir answers. “Quite something, I’ve heard. Make an omega come just playing with them, I imagine.” 

Collins lowers his mouth to Goodsir’s nipples, which are already exquisitely sensitive, and sucks softly. Gently nips and licks. “Could do that now,” he murmurs against Goodsir, who whines and writhes beneath him. Collins imagines the lukewarm bloom of milk onto his tongue, the soft smear of it on his palm, and the low hum of heat joining him to Goodsir intensifies to a blissful pitch and ebbs again. He feels the muscles of Goodsir’s body contract around the flow of another small orgasm. Collins sighs, content. They will stay like this as the afternoon light grows long, rolling on a warm tide. After a moment, Collins once again begins to move inside of Goodsir, shallow little gentle thrusts deepening each time. He watches how his eyes flutter shut and feels the clutch and curl of his back, and his heart swells soft and warm in his chest, like he’s swallowed the sun.

Then Goodsir whines beneath him, signaling impatience. Through their bond comes a sort of teasing tugging sensation and a shift in his scent toward needy subservience—he understands and the alpha in him responds. He seizes Goodsir by the hips and, mindful of his knot, turns him over onto his knees and elbows. There. Breeding position.

“Pity I can’t breed you twice over,” Collins growls. “Keep you pregnant, so huge with pups you can’t do anything. You’d not even leave the house.” He begins to roll into him, pistoning so hard he knocks a little gasp from between Goodsir’s teeth with each thrust. “I knew the moment I saw you—saw those hips and pretty eyes—I could breed you, fill you and pump you full.” He grabs a palmful of Goodsir’s full hips and squeezes. “You were built for my seed,” he growls before biting down onto his shoulder. 

Goodsir presses back with a trembling cry, and Collins can feel him come for a third time—the diminished echo of it, even, reverberates through their bond, sending a tremor of heat through him. What he says is half true—easygoing for an alpha, the very first sight of Goodsir woke something primal and protective in him. Even before he knew his name he knew how well they’d fit one another—a call and answer. Now he thinks of that in the same moment the hind of his brain chants greedily, _mine, mine, mine_. And with a growl into the tender ridge of his shoulder he comes again, spilling in and over. Goodsir sighs against him, softly, and they lie still in the slaking chill of the lengthening afternoon.


End file.
